


Courage to Continue

by Fyre



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Crossover, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-04 20:57:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, Emma met someone who actually listened to her. Ten years later, she finds she needs someone who will listen again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Courage to Continue

**Author's Note:**

> I was just idly speculating on the similarities between Emma and Harry one night, and this bunny went for my throat. So now, it's written and I shan't write anymore OUaT/HP.

Emma turned her cell over and over in her hand.

It wasn’t switched on, not yet, because she knew that as soon as she switched it on, the calls and messages would start. Mary Margaret would be after her. Regina goddamn Mills would be after her. Even August. She couldn’t take that, couldn’t take listening to them, couldn’t take all of them talking at her, yelling, threatening, cajoling. 

She was sitting on a bench by the vending machines in the courtyard of the motel.

Henry was still asleep in the room behind her.

His initial excitement at being with her had worn off the minute he realised she was serious and she was taking him out of Storybrooke. The disappointment on his face, in his voice, had twisted up around her heart like barbed wire, but she ignored him, put her foot down and drove and drove until they came to a town that sure as hell wasn’t Storybrooke.

Emma was good at running.

Years ago, before she had a kid, before she turned her life around, she had run like it was her only goal. Her juvie records, files of all the homes she had been through, were sealed, so no one would ever know just how much trouble the now ex-Sheriff of Storybrooke had been in when she was a kid.

She sagged back on the bench, knocking her head back against the wall.

It was a mess.

She could run and would run. She would take her boy. She would take him to the very ends of the damned earth if it meant that no one could ever threaten him again, but she knew that Regina wouldn’t let it lie. She would be hunted like an animal, and Henry with her. No matter where she went or how far she ran.

But she couldn’t go back. Not knowing August was there, looking at her with reproach. Not knowing that Henry would be waiting for her to be a big damn hero, when all she wanted was to just have a life, to actually be a mom.

She rolled to her feet and pulled out her wallet, searching for change. The coffee from the machine would probably taste like crap, but it would give her something to hold, to stop her from playing with her cell.

“Damnit,” she muttered, finding no change. She poked through the rest of the wallet on the off-chance that there might still be some cash in it somewhere, then frowned at the sight of a scrap of paper she had forgotten all about. She drew it out, the ink so faded it was almost illegible, and stared at it.

How she had forgotten, she didn’t know, but she had.

Years before, not long after Henry was born, when drinking herself into a stupor had seemed like a good idea for a little while, she ran into someone who gave her a sharp kick up the ass and set her back on her feet.

It was in Salem. Why Salem, she could never recall, but it seemed like the place to go at the time. She’d still been picking pockets in those days to get herself enough money to eat. She always hated begging, and homeless shelters were the places for the desperate to go. She never thought of herself as desperate, not even when stealing.

She just wasn’t very good at it, and this guy, in his suit, had caught her by the wrist with her hand halfway out of his pocket. He was only a little older than her, taller, black-haired, but he looked way older, much more serious. He was English too. The accent totally threw her, even when he explained he was in town for a conference.

She remembered begging him not to call the cops, not again, and he agreed. He said he would take her out to eat if she was hungry. Part of her was expecting it to lead to places she hated: a copped feel, maybe even an invitation back to his hotel, where she would be expected to repay him for not calling the cops.

He didn’t ask for any of that.

He let her talk. No. It was more than that. He let her vent. She was tired, she was hungry, she might still have been a little bit drunk from two days before. Her belly was still soft where her baby had been, and wasn’t anymore. Her feet hurt from running. She hated being afraid of what was coming next. She hated not knowing. 

He let her vent, then he spoke to her.

It wasn’t all self-righteous preaching like the social workers or the people in juvie hall. It was direct and it was quiet, and he looked like a man who had seen a hell of a lot of crap in his time. He talked about doing the right thing, not because it felt good or to impress anyone, but because it was the Right Thing. It would always be hard, he said, but then, if it was easy, everyone would be doing it.

She laughed in his face.

He had smiled, small and quiet, and she had stopped laughing.

“You’re serious?”

He turned his teacup in his hand. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life stealing and being caught?” he asked. “Some people won’t listen to you if you say you’re hungry.”

“Yeah, you’re a real saint,” she snorted. “Saviour of the world, I bet.”

His lips twitched. “Well, funny you should say that.” Emma stared at him and he sat up in the seat. “Look, Emma, I’m only passing through. I don’t know how life works over here. I don’t know if you can beat the system instead of letting it beat you.” He wrapped his hands around the cup, and looked at her. “But as one orphaned kid to another, trust me. If you want to make it better, you can.”

“How?” she demanded, throwing aside her fork. “I’m just a kid.”

“No such thing,” he said with a knowing look.

Emma scowled at him. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re an ass?”

He laughed at that. “Yeah,” he said. “A lot. But don’t let anyone ever tell you that you’re just a kid.” He pushed his cup to one side. “Everyone has something they’re good at, even if they’re ‘just a kid’. Find that thing, use it, fight from your corner.”

She snorted, picking at her french fries. “Yeah, because finding people is so useful,” she said bitterly, quietly. 

“I know people who would say it is,” he murmured. He tilted his head, looking at her, and she could see a ragged, faded scar on his forehead through his hair. “You could do it legally, find people for the law. Or even be a bounty hunter.” He offered her a grin. “You definitely have enough attitude for it.”

“Screw you,” she said, but it was half-hearted. 

“Just a suggestion,” he said, smiling just a little. He took out a pen from his pocket and what looked like a business card. It seemed a jackass thing to do, as he scribbled on it, until he slid it across the table to her and she saw it was actually a receipt for a cab. “In case you ever want to yell at a not-complete-stranger again,” he offered. 

Ten years down the line, and she still had it.

She knew she never tossed it, but she somehow always forgot that it moved from wallet to wallet, every time she got a new one. It was a reminder that once, someone had told her she was worth a damn.

She returned to the bench, sitting down. It was faded now, barely even legible, but she smoothed it out and traced the numbers. He didn’t put his name, and beneath his number were the words ‘Fight from your corner’.

Ten years.

He’d probably changed his cell number a dozen times since then. He probably wouldn’t even remember a half-drunk cocky homeless kid who had tried to rob him in Salem. He probably didn’t even give a damn.

That was why she didn’t know why her fingers were switching on her cell and dialling the number on the paper.

Her heart picked up speed when she heard it ringing. She wanted to cut the connection, stop the call before it could even start, hang up and throw the paper away as if she hadn’t been carrying it like a talisman for a decade.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end of the line was older, but still familiar. He also sounded like he was half-asleep.

“Um.” Emma pulled her feet up onto the bench. “Hi. I-I don’t know if you’ll remember me, but you gave me your number.” There was a moment of silence. “In case I needed to yell at a stranger.”

There was a soft, surprised sound on the other end of line. “Emma?”

Emma was glad she wasn’t standing. Hell, she was glad she was sitting. No one ever remembered her after she left. No one, it seemed, but the guy who had bought her dinner once in Salem. “Um. Yeah. Hi.” She fiddled with her necklace, toying with the ring. “Sorry to call out of the blue.”

“No, it’s fine,” he said. “Are you okay?”

She closed her hand around the metal circle, pressed her eyes shut. “I’m not,” she said, her voice small and broken. “I think I screwed up and I’m scared.”

“Just a minute,” he said, then spoke quietly to someone on the other end. “I’ll just get to somewhere I can talk, okay?”

A few minutes later, she was pouring out a world of troubles on the poor guy. She knew she should feel guilty about it, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t feel anything but the fear of losing Henry, of having to run to keep him safe. She didn’t want to run anymore.

“I’m not a hero,” she finally said, her voice trembling. “They want me to be this hero for them, and it’s not me. I’m just Emma. I don’t know how to be a hero.”

“Emma, it’s okay,” he said gently. “No one knows how to be a hero. No one really ever wants to be a hero, but it happens anyway. You don’t make the choice. All you do is what feels right, and if you’re a hero, you’re a hero. If you’re not, you’re not, but as long as you do what feels right…”

“How do you know what’s right?” she asked, resting her forehead on her folded arms. She felt exhausted.

“Does it feel right to drag your child all over the world to keep him safe?” he said quietly.

“No.” Emma ran a hand over her face. “No, he should be at home.” It hurt to admit it, but it was true. Running would only hurt Henry in the long run. “I should do it the right way.”

“You have the choice,” he said. “You could just walk away. Keep running. Or you could stand and fight.”

“I’m not a hero,” she said again in a whisper. “I’m not. I’m just me.”

“Then just be you,” he said. His voice was warm and calm and for a second, she could believe him. “You know what you want to do, but you know what you have to do as well. You can fight for your corner. Don’t forget that. It doesn’t make you a hero any more than it makes you weak. It just means you’re you, no more, no less.”

“What if they expect me to do something amazing? Save them all? I don’t know if I can.”

He was quiet for a second. “This isn’t about them,” he finally said. “This is about you. Do you want to keep your son safe? Do you want to do it the right way? Do you want to make sure that he won’t be hurt again?”

“Of course,” Emma said quietly. 

“Then do that, and don’t worry about the rest of it,” he said. “If it happens, it happens, but that’s not why you’re doing it. You choose your battles and you choose where you stand. No one can choose them for you. Don’t ever forget that.”

Emma laughed shakily. “You make it sound so easy.”

He laughed too, briefly, kind of sadly. “Sometimes, the toughest decisions are the ones that are left in your hands,” he said. “People can push you and try and make you be something you’re not, but in the end, they can’t make you do something you can’t and don’t want to do.”

She hugged her knees. “I have to go back,” she said. “I have to take him back.”

“Your choice,” he said gently. “You made it. Don’t be afraid.”

Emma rubbed her eyes. “How did you get so smart, anyway?”

The man laughed quietly. “Would you believe I’m the saviour of the world?” he said. She could imagine the smile on his face.

“You’re a jackass,” she said, then added more quietly, “thank you.”

“It’s all right,” he assured her. “Maybe let me know how it goes? In less than ten years?”

Emma couldn’t help laughing sheepishly. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I just…” She shrugged, hugging her knees. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I gave you my number. That was the deal. If you ever needed to yell at a stranger, I said, and you did.”

Emma nodded. “You never told me your name,” she said, “unless you really are called Willard.”

He snorted in amusement. “Do I look like a Willard?” he said.

“Ten years ago, yeah, you kinda did.”

He chuckled. “Well, I’m not,” he said. “My name’s Harry. Harry Potter.”

Emma smiled. “Nice to meet you, Harry Potter,” she said. “I’m Emma Swan.”

She heard him laugh again. “I can’t help thinking we’re doing this human interaction thing backwards,” he said. “You’re going to be okay?” It was a question, but coming from him, it sounded like more of a certain statement.

Emma got to her feet and pushed open the door of the motel room. Henry was sprawled face-down on the bed, one arm flung protectively over the book he insisted on bringing with them, just in case. He was fast asleep.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “To hell with being a hero. I’m going to be a mom..”

“Most powerful love in the world,” Harry said quietly. “Good luck.”

She smiled, truly for the first time in what felt like weeks. “Thanks,” she said quietly. “Really. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She could hear the smile. “And don’t forget: an update in less than ten years this time, okay?”

She couldn’t help laugh. “Okay,” she agreed, “Mr Saviour of the World.”

“Good night, Miss Hero of the Town.”

Emma shook her head with a small smile and terminated the call. She crossed the floor to sit by Henry’s side and gently shook him awake. “Henry.”

“Mm?”

She smoothed his hair. “Time to get up, kid,” she said. “We’re going home.”


End file.
